


the calculation

by jfk



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/jfk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A commission for the lovely 20-week-old-fetus. Shy Sniper and Scout. Shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the calculation

**Author's Note:**

> This was a $9 comission, and my only so far. If you like it, I'd be more than happy to write most things for most people. I don't really charge by word count, so much as 'giving what you feel is fair'. Have fun, now.

Engineer has been working at RED for eleven years, and he says that you get used to it.

That your nose learns to seal itself when you throw yourself, for refuge into dank, muddy water. Your eyes develop membranes to become impenetrable to dust, or gunpowder –and that your hands will grow their own gloves: invisible, and tough, and permanent. 

Scout has only been out there for only four weeks, and he thought he was made of stronger materials. 

The words aren't of comfort to him. In four weeks, somehow, the change happened when Scout wasn't looking, or had his eyes closed. It happened when he was distracted: body bags whittled under his eyes from not sleeping in narrow beds and that aching weakness from not eating cardboard food. Four weeks, and hell, Scout can't sleep at all because of the quiet. 

The other men play chess in the break room. They're lively, and used to this way of life, all seeming to think the wisdom they can impart is more valid, and more true. And usually, Scout pegs people pretty fast. He's like that: probably had the whole human race pegged on something. He knows that Demo is smart enough talk only when he thinks nobody is listening, or that from the way he talks, Medic has probably seen the worst of humanity. 

While the men play chess, though, a single man reads alone in the hammock between two oak trees. The last two oak trees for miles. Scout watches him from the window. He can make out the shape of the man like a thick black smudge and nothing more. They say that Sniper owns the shade. 

Allegedly, the australian has only been with them for a few months. Heavy explains that some men need time to adjust to life at RED: Medic calls the man a narcissist.. Whatever the case is, Scout only knows that the man doesn't seem to want for company. He doesn't go into town with them on rare evenings off, but retreats back to his own space. During meals, he stares down at his food, and doesn't speak. 

And why not? Engineer doesn't seem to mind it. He says if the man had something important to say, he'd say it: but it's Medic that says, later, bitterly, that if people only spoke when they had something to say, the human race would soon lose the power of speech. 

After his first four weeks, Scout expects a change. As if somebody will say the magic words 'Sim Sala Bim!' and Scout will have it all figured out again. When this doesn't happen, it doesn't make him angry, per se. It makes him determined. 

He rises early on a Tuesday and sits in the break room to read his letters from home. It's wiser than to do it when other people are around. Halfway through reading about how his second-oldest brother got 'employee of the month', the door swings open, and Scout freezes. 

Sniper meets his eyes for two seconds, and then stares at some bleak corner of the room. 

“Y'can sit, if y'want. I ain't gonna bother ya.” Scout says. The man pauses at the threshold, as if in consideration. When he begins towards the large table, Scout grins at him. “Atta boy.” He chides. 

The man doesn't even smile. 

They sit at quite a distance. Scout finishes the letter, but looks up at intervals. To make sure Sniper is still there, because he likes the company. It would be nice, the two of them reading in the break room if Sniper didn't glance up also. When they meet eyes, he always looks away first, staring hard at his own magazine. 

It falls on Scout to break the silence. “Hi.” He says, with a jut of the chin. 

Sniper says nothing. He looks up at Scout as if guilty of something. The expression might be annoyance, or nervousness. And for a man with such steady hands, it surely wouldn't be nerves. 

When he still says nothing, Scout raises his voice. “I said hi.” 

In a voice clear as day, and colourful with an accent, the man actually replies. “I-I heard...” He says. It's the first time Scout has heard him talk. He takes it as incentive, and moves to the seat right in front of Sniper. 

“Okay if I sit closer?” He says, when he is already sat. 

Sniper says nothing. He continues to read. For a few seconds, Scout just drums on the desk. He sighs. “Y'don't like t'talk much, do ya?” 

Sniper shrugs at him. He continues to read. It's so audacious that Scout slides the magazine out from under the man's eyes. On one page is an article about wildlife, which he pays no attention to. On the other is an ad for Fizzies Candy: drink six pack. 

“Man, I love those,” Scout says, stabbing at the page with his finger. “My favourite's Blue Razz. Y'drink 'em?” 

Sniper shakes his head. It doesn't deter Scout, because it's a committed response. 

“Snappy name, ain't it?” He says, “Although most of the others ain't so great. There's gotta be job, comin' up with those names.” 

Sniper makes a noise of amusement, but doesn't look up. “They only have six flavours.” He says, more to himself. 

Scout stabs the page again. “Somebody's got that job.” Sniper shrugs again, and they fall into a napalm quiet. The kind that twitches like a fire, and very occasionally Sniper will dare to look up before his eyes dart away. The man doesn't dare ask for the magazine back, which is creased by now from Scout's enthusiasm. 

“Scarlet fever!” Scout erupts with pride, and it surprises Sniper so much that he visibly flinches. So it is nerves, then. Taking it in his stride, the boy pats his chest and grins. “I came up with that one.” And then, aside. “S'nasty and violent, like me.” 

Very quietly, Sniper says. “That ain't true.” 

“Well, y'don't know me, so y'dont know.” He says, and then realises how it sounds. With the other men, Scout gets used to guarding himself, and not letting them get too close. He tries to soften it by saying. “That's sweet, though.” 

The silence falls again, and he slides back the magazine. It grows more tense, as Sniper isn't even attempting to look at anything but the words on his page, and Scout desperately wants a victory in unlocking the man. It's that, in the end, that makes him sit up, and extend a hand. 

“I'm Scout.” He says. Very hesitantly, Sniper raises a large hand, and his grip is tight and comfortable. 

“M'Sniper.” Is his reply. They shake, but Scout doesn't let go just yet. 

“No jokes about my name.” He says, but he's still smiling. “Naw, you wouldn't do that, you're sweet, remember?” 

“I don't know any jokes about your name.” Sniper says. 

Trusting him, Scout leans back and retracts his hand. His turn to shrug when he says. “Cookies? Girl Scouts?” 

“I don't know what that is.” Sniper says, again. His voice is strong, but quiet.

For a second, Scout is confused. And then he laughs. “Girl Scout cookies? Are you nuts?” The man doesn't react, and Scout has to settle from laughing to nudge the man into smiling. “I'll get you a box or somethin'. They're real good.” 

What Sniper mutters might be a 'thankyou'. 

At dinner, the man acts as he always does. Scout has to wonder if he's made any progress at all. It continues like that for two days, and while Sniper is just as passive to the rest of the team, Scout takes it very personally. So much so that three days after, he rises early in the morning, to catch the man in the break room again. 

Sniper is sat in front of a small chess board. He looks to be studying the placement of the pieces with great care. 

“Still workin' on those girl scout cookies.” He says, in the doorway, and Sniper flinches again. “Didn't mean t'scare ya.” Scout says. He comes to sit in front of the man again. “Y'playin chess by yourself?” 

Sniper goes to shrug, but seems to stop himself. He looks up at Scout with more conviction than any time before, and starts to reset the pieces. He nods down to invite Scout to play. 

Scout waves a hand. “I don't know how to play, man.” In the draw behind him, he finds old dice, but more importantly, a pack of playing cards. He slaps them onto the table next to the board. “We could play a quick heads up instead, if ya like. You don't gotta bet or nothin'.” 

This time, a full shrug emerges from the man. “I don't know how to play poker.” 

Before he can think to hide it, Scout's face drops. “Jesus Christ, y'really are nuts. Everybody knows how to play poker.” 

Quietly, Sniper hedges, “Everybody knows how to play chess.” 

Because Scout doesn't expect him to talk, it's so astounding that he finds himself laughing. He places his palms on the table and says. “Well, teach me, wise guy.” at that, Sniper looks a little unsure, so he enumerates further. “C'mon. If ya teach me how to play chess, I'll teach you how t'play poker. Fair?” 

Scout sticks out his hand with a grin. On the table, he can see Sniper's fingers twitch gingerly. 

“I don't know how to teach.” The man protests. 

“Neither do I.” Scout says. “C'mon, it'll be fun.” It isn't clear why he's pushing it. Maybe it's because Scout likes hearing the man talk in that colourful mutter, or maybe it's because when his face is at a certain angle, Scout can see the man's eyes behind the shades, and they are a pretty blue. 

Eventually, Sniper meets the Scout's hand. They begin. 

It becomes a morning ritual. Scout doesn't have trouble rising early, if it's for a good cause. Which it is. Sniper doesn't give very much away, but he seems to like listening, which suits Scout fine, because he likes talking. He talks about poker, and about chess, but mainly about home, and his brothers. General things. 

Scout says. “Y'don't like to talk much.” During his second proper game of chess. Finger still on the top of his queen-side bishop, one of the Sniper's shoulders moves in a shrug. 

“I like talking fine.” He says. 

“Not to the others,” Scout talks to the board, trying to use his words carefully. He tries not to mention how Sniper also showers alone, and even declines use of the old dorm marked as his for the isolation of his van. 

Some breath leaves the older man. “I jus' don't like answerin' their questions.” He says, quietly. An afterthought: “Check.” 

This continues for three more weeks. Sniper still doesn't talk much, which is okay. Of course, Scout knew he'd like Sniper's company the moment the man spoke. He was so pretty. He knew so many words, and animals, and places, even if he didn't much use his voice. Very fast, Scout could feel himself softening to the man more and more, and that was dangerous. 

As a rule of thumb, Scout has learned, you can't make the assumption that a man a)bats for both teams or b)is okay with boys that bat for the other team. He can't be sure he's not imagining the small smiles between exchanges, or the way Sniper breathes easier when it's just them. Nobody else is there with him to confirm their reality, or even their significance. 

Scout doesn't want to make the mistake of thinking Sniper is gay, or even interested, because he has made that mistake before. 

Spy catches him alone on the field one day. He presses Scout hard against a well but does the talking. “Don't think I don't know what you're doing with our Sniper.” The man hisses. 

“It ain't a felony to play chess with a guy.” Scout says, weakly. Spy presses harder until he starts to feel panic rising in him like a dark wave swelling. 

“But it is a felony to--” Before the man can finish, he notices the telltale red dot on the wall above Scout's head, and withdraws from the boy. “Oh, I see.” He says, turning around. From up in the distance, there is a rifle to which that dot belongs. But it's place on the wall doesn't waver. 

When Scout passes Sniper that evening, the man doesn't look up. He isn't present at dinner, or even in the break room, early in the morning. Three days later, when he does appear, Scout can tell something is wrong. 

Scout thinks from his initial silence that Sniper won't mention the altercation with Spy, but it slips out, eventually, as Scout deals them both new hands. “What did Spy want?” He asks, very quietly. 

From exposure, Scout has picked up some of Sniper's habits. He shrugs a shoulder, and swallows. The lie occurs to him as he is telling it. “He was jus' pissed at me for teasin' him about his lady.” 

From his glance up, it's obvious Sniper doesn't believe him. “She ain't too young.” Scout hears himself talking. “But there ain't many out here. Y'can't afford to be picky.” It's instinct to pretend and before he knows it, Scout is making an elaborate pantomime of the straight man. “I could use a woman, y'know. You got one, back home?” 

There is a lot riding on that question. Scout isn't sure how to read Sniper's tense silence. The man shifts in his seat. “No.” He says, quietly. 

“What, y'leave her to go over here? Divorced her?” at this point, he's fishing. But he can't continue to ignore what he's seeing. This seems to be the only way Scout can confirm if he's reading the signs right. 

Sniper stares at his face-down cards. “No.” 

Putting down his own cards, Scout leans on his hands and stares at the man. “Don't y'ever get lonely?” 

Sniper says nothing. That is all he needs to answer the boy. 

“It's okay, y'know.” Scout says. “Everybody does.” A tiny smile plays out on Sniper's lips. Scout is surprised when he speaks up. 

“You got somebody, then?” He says. Sniper is looking right at him. His face is empty of it's usual barriers and Scout knows he would never tire of looking, or being near, because even f it's unhealthy for them to kiss, Scout can still think about it. Sniper doesn't have to know that when Scout looks like this, he's thinking how easy it would be to lean over and grab him and show him just how liberated american boys can be. 

Scout remembers the question. “Say I don't.” he says, softer than usual. 

Sniper is still looking at him. The expression is solemn, but impenetrable. It gives no clues as to what Scout should say to please the man, and he finds himself floundering under the gaze. “You want somebody?” Sniper asks him. 

Scout hold back the urge to say what he's first thinking, and tires to mirror the untouchable look of Sniper. But he can't fight it, and the words slip out like blood out of guilty wounds. “That an offer?”   
He hears himself say it. And he screws his eyes shut. “Naw, I didn't mean –I was bein' stupid. Jus' ignore me, yeah?” 

Is that disappointment Sniper is displaying when he nods, and looks back down at his hidden cards? Is that what it is? Maybe he's disgusted. Maybe he's one of those products like Scout had in his neighbourhood, the kind that pass intolerance down like a family heirloom and make it hell at school because apparently it is better to kill a man than to love one. 

Scout finds his hands clasping together. He doesn't do religion, but finds himself praying to somebody, 'don't make him one of those.' As if any God would listen to that kind of plea. 

When he looks up, Sniper's expression is very guarded. “You aren't stupid.” He says, quietly, before pushing the cards towards Scout. “I'm done.” He says, and leaves the room. 

Scout is left facing an empty chair, with only Sniper's hand and unanswered questions to plague him. He folds the cards over, revealing a neat pair of red jacks. It makes him laugh. 

After that, Sniper retreats back to his own space, and when he doesn't appear in the early morning, Scout finds himself going back to bed, not just annoyed, but disappointed. On his back, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what the hell it was he said, or did. It gets him nowhere, and in his frustration, he knows something has to be done. 

At no point during the day, however, is it actually possible to have an aside with Sniper. He doesn't shower with team –not impossible to question as the spigots are outside in a row, and the water is cold. At dinner, it's impossible to talk to him without making it a group discussion, and Scout knows better than to embarrass a guy. Even afterwards, Scout walks from base to the door of Sniper's van and stands there in the sodium twilight for a good ten minutes before he turns, and goes. 

What would he say for himself if Sniper did answer his door? 

Scout is certain he's made some irreconcilable mistake. Somewhere down the line he's breached some unknown rule, or something, because he they haven't spoken since that morning. And he's so sure, so certain that Sniper is angry with him. 

Which is why, when the ceasefire in the evening gets called and Scout pulls off his shirt, exhausted and sweating, he's confused to find a little red dot in the dust at his feet. When he looks up, there's no trace of the man, but Scout knows what he saw, and he knows what it means. 

Sniper is back in the game! Pure, raw, explosive pleasure! Better than music, and weed. Better than sex, sunlight, better than the B-Side to Abbey Rod, better than freedom, better than life--!

Then comes the staggered onslaught of thought, and Scout thinks, oh, they'll play chess again, or play cards. But that's it. That's all game game has ever been so far. Which is why it surprises him, the next morning, when Sniper arrives without a chess board. 

“Didn't think you'd show your face around me again,” Scout says, looking up. “After your last defeat, I mean.” He qualifies, weakly. 

The man is blushing before he speaks and his voice is shaking like the tremolo of a thousand violins. Scout can see the awkwardness in the concert of his walk. He's afraid he's about to hear something terrible until Sniper makes fleeting eye contact and says. “I like you, Scout.” He says, so slightly that Scout is afraid he has misheard it. 

“I like you, too man.” He says, trying to sound breezy and amicable. “Even if y'do blow at cards.” 

“No, I mean--...” Sniper's hand spiders up his neck and he scratches the nape as if trying to comfort himself. Scout figures he might well just shut up and stop trying to be so smart, but he's just as nervous. He crosses his arms, but lets Sniper do the talking. “I'm not assumin' anything,” Sniper continues, equally as minuscule. “Would you--...I mean, do you want to dat--” 

“Hang?” Scout offers. 

“Yeah,” Sniper looks dangerously relieved. He's still pink in the cheeks, but has found the audacity to look Scout in the face. “Do you want to...hang?” 

It isn't as if he means to laugh, but that's what comes out. Scout shakes his head simply and sighs. “I can't. You're married.” 

For a second, Sniper is completely lost. “I--...” The wind takes his words again. He frowns. “Not married.” He says, “Not me.” 

“Look, man.” Scout sighs. He leans back and looks at Sniper. Despite the man being unable to lock eyes with him, the sincerity is easy to recognise. “I'm tellin' you this off the bat: I'm a pain in the ass. I ain't gonna tiptoe around your hangups, or the team.”

Sniper doesn't say anything. 

“You wanna be with me, you're with me, okay?” 

He doesn't expect Sniper to say. “Okay.” 

“Man,” he says, exasperated. “You're really serious about this. I don't –I don't get it. What d'you even like about me?” 

Needless to say, the shy and tiny response, “Everything.” Is not what he expects or wants to hear. In fact, it blindsides him to such an extent that for ten seconds or so, he is rendered completely speechless. He lifts a hand, weakly, and laughs. “Tomorrow?” 

“Jesus, you're eager. I ain't even said yes yet.” Scout laughs. He leans on his elbows and sighs. Risking a glance at Sniper proves rewarding. Despite the blush, and the apprehension in the man's wringing hands, there's gladness, too. 

Sniper looks at his shoes. He takes in a breath. “So you--” 

“Yes, y'moron.” Scout looks sideways at him. “But y'gotta be able t'look me in the face, y'know.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and finds himself with this strange kind of comfort sitting right in his chest. They'll skin him before he admits to blushing, or to being the slightest bit relieved. 

Scout crosses the room and hitches up onto his toes. He clamps a hand on Sniper's shoulder and kisses him hard, feeling the heat of vasodilation beneath his lips and taking the utmost pride in knowing: he did that. 

“You shouldn't--” 

He makes it all the way to the door before Sniper manages real, finished sentences. “Tomorrow, then? You can –can come by mine?” 

“Sure,” He says, and then turns. “You ain't done this before, have ya?” Sniper shakes his head, and it's Scout's turn to feel a little nervous. His hand raises of it's own accord in a halting gesture. “Don't go all out, yeah? I ain't a broad.” 

“Okay.” Sniper says. 

“An' talk a little, yeah? I like my own voice fine, but I hear it all the time, y'know.” 

“Okay.” He says, once more. The smile ghosted on his lips is tiny and twitches when Scout talks, as if each word plays with him. “You'll come, though?” 

Scout throws up his hands. “Yes, I'll come, y'lanky shit.” 

He wanders back to his room and tries to get some more sleep. Every time he feels drowsy, he remembers something else Sniper said, or an expression that graced his features, and he is struck with alertness. It's going to be a very long day. 

It can't last forever, though, and it doesn't. When at last the day ends, Scout uses the soap for the first time since joining and scrubs himself to some semblance of clean. He pushes back his hair all nice and puts on his last set of clean, 'nice' clothes: dark jeans that could pass for tight dress pants and a shirt. There isn't anything of his with buttons or a collar. 

The walk from base to Sniper's van sees his nicest shoes become dusty as the desert and the colour of orange asphalt. Scout's shaking it off when he reaches what he considers to be unreachable: Sniper's door. He's never actually been inside, or even around the other side. It seems too intimate. The space can only be minimal, and there will be family pictures and memorabilia and memories. Only after knocking does he begin to feel terribly nervous. 

Not as nervous, apparently, as Sniper. 

The man appears at the door obviously flustered. Scout can see the fluid, but aggravated movement of his chest, can sense the tension in the hopeless expression he's been given, but it hardly matters now. Scout is just terrified, but he swallows, and moves as coolly as he can past the man, and into his home. 

“It's--...” The space is small. In front of him is a neat table with two chairs, dressed smartly with cutlery and placemats. Further down, there's a bed, and what could be a bathroom. Space is a concern. Everything seems to be in personal proximity of everything else: even the walls seem to be leaning in to listen. Up front is what Scout figures to call the 'cockpit', but isn't. 

As for decorating, there are touches of colour, and of his culture with strange, patterned prints and sun-faded photographs of fields so far from Teufort. The whiteness of the bedsheets indicates Sniper is a qualified bachelor, and for a second, Scout feels bad for expecting anything else. “It's nice,” He says, at last. 

Sniper dips his head. “You like it?” 

“Sure,” Scout says, “I mean, I ain't movin' in, but it's cosy.” He stands, fists jammed into his trousers, until he's offered a seat at the small table, and he sits. The moment he is sat, Sniper passes him and goes out of his sight. It is nice inside, but not nice enough that Scout doesn't miss his own room. Notwithstanding the fact that he doesn't like the idea of being locked in what if effectually a tin can. 

He doesn't see Sniper when the man returns. What he sees in the enormous arrangement of exotic flowers stuffed into his arms. The man behind them has a proud little smile. He scratches his neck, which seems to be a habit, and looks at Scout's feet, not his face, when he speaks. 

“I grew 'em myself.” He says. Scout is very confused by now, wiping at the pollen on his shirt uselessly. It's the first time he's ever been given anything, let alone flowers. That isn't to say he hasn't given other people flowers: that's the law when you take a girl out. Clearly, he has a little more experience in this field. 

“Uhm, thanks.” He says, and looks at Sniper dumbly. “What do I, uh--...” Right now, he might be confused, but he won't be rude, because he was raised just an inch better than that. But he still has a thick collection of flowers he has no use for. “What do I do with them?” 

“I can put them in water for you.” It's clear Sniper is restless. He doesn't sit down once, and his hands are trembling when he grasps the thick of the stems, and turns to find something for them. Once more, Scout is left to drum his fingers and wonder what he's supposed to do with himself. But Sniper does return eventually. 

He sighs. “What's the plan?” 

“Oh,” The man's face falls a little. “I didn't mean to get pollen on your shirt.” 

Scout waves a hand. “I don't care, man.” 

As if guilty, Sniper is looking off to the side conflictedly. “But that'll stain--” 

“Unless you're offerin' to do my laundry,” Scout laughs. “You can forget about it. I really don't care.” He leans back in his chair. “I know you ain't a shady character offerin' me cigarettes behind the bike shed, but I'd like to know what we're doin'.” 

At least it makes Sniper laugh. He pauses, and looks at Scout. “I'm sorry.” He says. “I jus' ain't done anything like this before.” 

“I know.” Scout says. 

“You know?” Sniper asks him. 

“Yeah, and for the record,” He shakes his head. “Y'don't usually get a guy flowers. That's a lady thing.” 

It gives the other man pause, and Sniper's hand is at it again, scratching away. This gentle blush is impossible to divorce from the tan of his face. “You...y'don't like 'em?” 

“Oh, don't be like that,” Scout dismisses him. “I was jus' doin' you a favour for next time, y'know.” 

“Next time?” 

He laughs again. “Don't look too surprised.” Scout says, and then comes to sit forward. “Yeah, next time. But right now, dinner's on you, romeo.” It's refreshing to see a knowing smile on Sniper's face. The man is obviously a master hunter, and clever and resourceful: Scout has read his file, and to track that long in such arid and empty lands he would have to be. So why is he so withdrawn, even around Scout? He just asks instead. “What are we gonna be eatin'?” 

His eyes never leave the floor. “I was jus' gonna barbecue somethin'.” Scout doesn't say anything smart to that. He loves to hear about Sniper, even the boring, plebeian details. Somehow, when it's Sniper, they're not boring at all, but instead key pieces in giving Scout insight to the man. After all, what do people mean away from places you find them? What does Scout mean to the world outside of Boston? They smile to eachother, so crooked that Scout figures they just might fit. 

“Can you wait?” Scout frowns. “To eat, I mean..” Sniper blushes a little, uselessly. “I was going to drive a little before I started.” 

Scout licks his lips. “Sure,” He says. Without saying a word further, Sniper gets up, and goes out of the door, to the front of the vehicle, and Scout follows him.. Not even when the engine purrs into life, and they start to move. The base becomes smaller and smaller, and rightly so as it becomes less relevant until it is nothing more than a speck on Scout's horizon. 

He doesn't ask questions. Not just because Sniper will speak in his own time, but because from what he can gather, their destination is supposed to be a surprise. 

After about ten minutes, still keeping his eyes on the road, Sniper speaks. The distraction seems to help him find comfort. “The others ain't like you.” He says. 

“Yeah?” Scout has trouble hiding his smile at that. He gives it to the window. 

“I-I know I don't talk much.” A sigh. Scout looks over at the figurine wobbling on the dashboard, and the graveyard of cigarettes in the ashtray. They say just as much about the man as his talking. “It ain't personal. That I'm quiet. It ain't--...” 

Scout lets him talk. 

“The other's have given up, I guess...” 

“Not me.” Scout finds himself chiding a little. He's proud. Perhaps more than he should let on. Of anybody on the team, Scout never imagined it would be him to grow closest to Sniper, to be in the man's personal space and to wanted there. 

Sniper even agrees with him. “Not you.” But it proves too great a feat to give Scout eye contact when he speaks. Scout doesn't mind. 

Eventually they pull up where the dust of the badlands becomes wild with grass, and where the wild grass borders the only still water for three-hundred miles in at least two directions. He never wanders this far from base, even on a long run. It's a nice spot, and he hates to think he has missed it. 

Taking in the magnificence of the yolky sunset, Scout parks himself onto the prairie grass, taking off his shoes, and his socks until the water meets his toes. After being on his feet all day, most days, and after having always depending on them to get him in or out of trouble, he goes barefoot whatever chance he gets. Over his shoulder, Sniper sets up a basic grill with relative ease and after lighting coals, he sighs. 

It seems like such an openly human thing to do that Scout doesn't recognise it at first. Even more so as Sniper begins to strip away the barriers of his job. First his hat, and then the glasses, until he's in just a white vest. Of all the times Scout has ever seen his eyes, this is the first time he is really struck. 

Who would have thought it? Blue, the most human of colours. 

“You find this spot by yourself?” Scout leans on his hands. In a second, Sniper joins him, and maybe it's the company or maybe it really is the evening, but it feels like this is the first time he's remembered to look up in so long. 

Sniper nods, smiling to the dirt. He draws lines with his forefinger. 

“It's real nice.” Scout nudges him, and curls his toes in the water, warmed by the sun. “We never had nothin' like this back home, but sometimes, for the holidays, we'd go up the Cape Cod. Kinda reminds me of that, y'know.” Sniper seems especially withdrawn. Scout nudges him again. “Is it much like this where you come from?” 

“Parts.” The man mumbles. 

“Yeah?” 

“It's, uh--...it's different.” How nice it is to see Sniper's usually dour expression shift, and his face goes from hard as metal to soft as nostalgia in a second. That humanity in his eyes glistens and he's younger for it. It's one of the only things that could give Scout pause to be silent, even just for a second. “My family own a vineyard, so I grew up in the Upper Hunter region.” A smile. “But I spent most o' my work in the Outback. A lot like this, actually.” 

“You rich, then?” Scout puts his foot into his mouth almost immediately, and chokes pulling it out. “Jus', wine's expensive an' all. I'm jus' figurin', that's all.” 

“We had enough.” Sniper says. There's no edge to the comment, and Scout can't tell if that means yes, or that is a firm 'no'. It's probably rude to talk money, anyway. 

Scout sighs again,and stares out at the vast, burning colours. The rocks in the distance jut out where the sun is sinking, and for about ten seconds, God is twirling a fiery basketball. 

“How can you stand it?” It's the first honest question he's asked all evening. “I can't –I hate it. The quiet. The nothin'-ness. At home, there was always somebody awake, or bangin' around, or somethin' open in town.” Scout kicks a little at the water, and observes the swirls it creates. “Don't it make you feel alone?” 

“I like it.” Sniper dips his head, a little. “I like you.” 

“What?” Scout knows what he said. He just doesn't know if the man has the gall to repeat it. From the way sniper tenses, and his hand shoots up defensively, that's a no. 

“I said –I ought to start cooking now.” Scout will be damned if he doesn't laugh a little at Sniper, who stumbles up, obviously still nervous. He leaves the man be. Sniper might just burn up in his atmosphere, electric with nerves. The man is restless and buzzing like neon and there's really only one thing for it. 

Scout passes him and says, “You got anythin' to drink?” the noise of affirmation if felt rather than heard, and it doesn't take much poking around in sniper's space to find wine and half a bottle of single-malt whiskey. It's not ideal, but it's a means to an end. He elbows Sniper and tries to make the selection look grander than the mess he has collected. “Don't make me drink alone.” 

The man raises a feeble protest. “I-I have to drive back--” 

“In the desert. At night. With no cops.” Scout laughs at him. “What, you scared of hitting a cactus? C'mon.” Despite his best intentions, it makes Sniper laugh. He turns his attention to Scout, and manages for what feels like the first time, to look at him. They're close –close enough to kiss and all Scout would have to do is hitch up onto his toes and lean, but instead, he finds himself speaking quietly. “What're ya nervous for? I see you kill thirty guys a day, an' you can't even look at me.” 

Sniper's lips are more or less eye-height to Scout. He sees the nervous twitch before the man speaks. “It's not the same.” The words are too timid to have any weight. “You –you're lookin' back. They don't--” 

“S'all people.” It's strange when Scout realises he's listening to himself speaking, but not actively talking. “It's no different.” And Scout knows to take an opportunity when it presents itself, though, and with an inhale he bridges the gap, one that could have been universes reduced to history by a single movement. Grabbing a fistful of shirt, Scout kisses him hard, and when he lets go they have both been robbed of their breath. 

The most pleasing result is the way Sniper is frozen, one hand up in silent shock, staring at Scout like the man is an earth-walking star, pulsating with energy. 

So Scout grins. “Problem solved, then.” And he goes to sit back on the wild grass. 

Three minutes later, Sniper joins him. He watches with fond eyes as Scout tears the cork out of the first bottle, and takes a swig from the side of his mouth. Turning suddenly to the side, Scout sprays his mouthful into the thirsty orange dirt and pulls a face, handing the bottle to Sniper. “What the hell is that stuff?” 

With a refined practise that comes from nature, and no nurture, Sniper sips very slowly, and Scout watches his throat as the man swallows. Clearly, Sniper has come to the same conclusion on it's taste. “S'my family label.” Scout begins to laugh, covering his face. 

“Aw, Jesus,” Scout says, “I didn't mean--” 

“That's f-fine,” Sniper manages to look up at him, despite how difficult it appears for him. That's not lost on Scout. He makes sure to notice, and makes sure to smile. “I never was much for wine...” 

Scout snorts. “Bet your parents loved that.” When Sniper gives a small laugh, he knows he's hit the nail on the head. Or at least, one nail in the haunted house of Sniper. “Ma Ma was real mad when I moved out here for RED. I guess she was jus' scared a'losin' me like my Pop.” Te words are supposed to be more of a comparison than an insight. Scout doesn't want to give Sniper insight, so much as a rope to tug on for common ground. 

Leaning forward, Scout cants his chin up. In the evening his features are painted gold and his voice is soft when he speaks. “You get on with your parents?” 

Sniper shrugs. But he knows that won't be good enough, and eventually musters an answer. “Sometimes.” He says, quietly. “No so much my Dad, but--...” There's no pressure to enumerate. Scout gives him a nod, and lets the sentiment be. “I think it'll storm later.” The man looks up, and then quickly at Scout. 

“Be a miracle if it does,” Scout shrugs. “Not seen a drop a'rain in the seven weeks I been out here.” Despite the taste, Scout drinks and leaves Sniper to cooking. Whatever it is smells good, but Scout doesn't ask because, as Sniper has mentioned, he prefers to listen, and it's more pleasing to watch the man in his natural state. With the way he moves, it's clear he's good at what he does but from the nerves, Scout knows he's spent most of his time alone, too much of it, and it seems such a crime that gold can sink to the bottom of the ocean like that. 

Eventually, after diligent waiting, Scout's loyalty and silence is rewarded, and Sniper brings him a pale chicken dish. Maybe it's because they're away from the team, but Sniper moves so much easier, and he eats differently. Usually, in the mess hall, he stares at the wood table like he's ashamed and finishes quickly. To see him take his time and pleasure is a reward private to Scout in that moment. 

“It smells good.” Scout says, cheerfully. “What is it?” He takes a large bite, and it warms his mouth. The flavours melt and he chews with great enthusiasm, flicking his eyes up at sniper every few seconds as if to encourage it's chef. 

“Honey-mustard chicken and almond.” Sniper murmurs. “It's my grandmother's--” 

“Almond?” Scout's face goes silver with pallor. It loses colour so fast, it's as if Sniper knows what he's going to say right away. 

In a second, the boy heaves everything in his mouth, clawing at his tongue with his own fingernails, before taking a stiff drink of wine and spitting that out, too. He chokes, trying to clear his mouth of every last particle, before sitting up, slowly. When he looks up at Sniper, the man is clearly horrified, a hand raised but frozen in an attempt to help, or do something, severed. 

For a second, Scout is just gasping, but realises the injury he's undoubtedly caused, and manages to swallow. “I got an almond allergy.” He says, quietly, and it takes all of the air out of Sniper. Scout has said the magic word, apparently, and Sniper's expression dries up like a lifeless, brittle brown leaf being abducted by the wind. 

“Oh, god.” the man laments. “I-I had no id-idea –are you –are y--”

Scout puts a hand on his shoulder and manages to smile. “Hey, I'm okay. I don't think I swallowed nothin'.” But it does no good to assuage Sniper from his crisis. 

“But you c-c-could have--” 

“An' I didn't!” Scout laughs. “I'm gonna be fine.” then, quieter, trying to settle the other man. “It was nice, from what I tasted.” Despite his intentions, that manages to draw a smile from Sniper, and he gives Scout a small, trembling glance. “It ain't you fault, man. I didn't warn you. How was you supposed t'know?” 

Sniper stares at the dirt despondently. One shoulder shrugs of it's own accord. 

“Man,” Scout mumbles, “I ain't here on account a'your latent psychic abilities.” He nudges the other man who manages a small laugh despite himself. His eyes flick up at Scout, sparkling with fickle beauty, blue as mercy. 

“It just--...” The man sighs. Is voice is fractions above silence, and Scout really has to focus, his senses dulled by a flickering gunnery. “It's all goin' wrong.” 

“Well, I'm still here,” Scout croons, rocking a little and taking a drink of wine. He gives Sniper his most winning smile, and still it does nothing. 

“Why?” Sniper mumbles, bitterly. The question had Scout silent for just a second, but he has been rolling with the punches for so long that he recovers fast. Leaning back on his hands, Scout shrugs. 

“I like you.” 

In a flash, Sniper looks up at him. “You...w-what?” 

“I like you!” Scout announces. He throws up his hands and shakes his head. “Even if you're quiet an' you can play one decent hand a' cards. That's the only reason I'm here.” 

As a rule, Scout doesn't really collect looks. He never really saw the point of it, and there was never anybody, before, worth looking at, or remembering. But the way Sniper's face lights up at that, in complete astonishment and grace is something Scout wants to remember over his own mother's name. The man usually looks so closed-off and serious. It's not just the man's face, but the next few words that change everything. 

“I--...” Sniper gives him a flustered look. “Well, you know.” 

Scout knows. 

They go in search of alternate food. He lays in the darkening lilac of the evening and wonders if this is the storm, or the calm, or what the hell they are. It doesn't matter. It never did. Even with Spy at his throat. Scout has nothing to prove. 

Three minutes later, his gifts for not going into anaphylactic shock is a can of fruit salad and a light beer. It's not much, but Scout pretends not to be fussy. 

“I now they ain't much...” Is how sniper begins, miserably. Scout shrugs, and digs his pen-knife into the lid of the can. 

“Growin' up with eight brothers, I weren't never allowed to be fussy.” He says, tearing through the metal. Sniper opens the beer for him, and the crispness of the amber drink bubbles the way his insides did when he first heard Sniper talk. Jesus Christ, he might be turning into a sad case, but if this is his reward, he can live with that. 

“Y'sure that's gonna be enough?” Sniper scratches the nape of his neck. By this time, Scout has started to eat, as gracelessly as if he were back home. Splitting a chunk of pineapple with his front teeth, he shrugs. “I weren't ever allowed a whole can before.” 

Somehow, with a crummy can of cheap fruit and an old beer, Sniper brings him home in just a meal, each chunk of berry sweet as nostalgia, the colours of a Boston sunsets, bits of strawberries strident as blood from schoolyard spats. Scout thinks, he might resign never to have fruit salad ever again, because it's never going to taste as good as it does now. 

Three-quarters of the way through the can, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs. “Thanks.” He says. 

“I didn't--” 

“Aw, shut up.” Scout holds up a hand. He knocks over his empty bottle of beer when he rolls onto his stomach to stare at Sniper. It's not unnerving or anything, because he's smiling, satiated. The other man has cleared three-quarters of the first wine bottle largely alone, and he looks a little more relaxed. “Can I be honest wit' you?” The question slips out. 

“Okay,” Sniper mumbles. He dips his head under Scout's gaze. The boy grins. 

“I'm tough, okay? I ain't –I ain't a flutterin' little queer like you find in dives an' shit.” Whatever beautiful sentiment Scout wants to convey is completely sullied by his introduction, and he knows he sounds careless. Sometimes he reflects on his life as if it were a movie so crass and awkwardly-cast that he would be the star. Scout knows the world isn't ready for honesty, isn't ready for the notion that men who don't conform absolutely to the norm might be more than background characters and props. 

Sniper listens intently. 

“An' I had girls. I've had guys, too. But it ain't ever been like this. It ain't ever been nice...” 

Sniper speaks. It surprises Scout, but he doesn't get sour about it. What the man says is valid. "That's not much of an embarassin' admission." It's as if he knows that Scout is having trouble, and it's not as if he isn't grateful for the prompt. Scout makes a noise of disgruntlement and shrugs. He shrugs in the same way Sniper does, no commitment to the action. 

"Yeah, alright," Scout holds up a hand. He swallows. "I guess my embarassin' admission is --like, I don't mind this. I like it nice." 

They continue to drink. The taste leaves something to be desired, but the fieriness of the wine warms the soul much the same way a kiss does. The silence is neither taught nor lax. Scout is content with looking. He always liked pretty thinks.. It's a happy coincidence that Sniper is one of them. 

"You had girls?" Scout asks, rolling onto his back. The sky becomes orange and the found a starry indigo. Sniper's lips are curved like an umbrella keeping the rest of the world from this little slice of heaven by the water. 

The man nods. 

"How many?" The question is asked without agenda, but it still appears to stumble Sniper. He considers his answer for some time, before blushing, and scraping at the dirt with a fingertip.

"Enough." He says, quietly. "Enough to know I wanted somethin' else." Scout has been there. He makes a noise of agreement, and it resonated with the both of them like a note being played on one violin resonating with another. "You--...you ever been skinnydippin'?" 

Scout gives him a sharp look. "Sure." He says, "In my bath." And then, after some though. "Are you tryin' ta--"

"I didn't mean--" Sniper begins. he clamps a hand over his eyes. "It don't matter. I --I'll be quiet." 

By this time the moon is already out,muting Sniper's hard, masculine tan to a pale vanilla. The night has clouded over quite a bit, but the visibility is good. Scout feels like he can see everything In the split, silver light. a pair of eyes like jungle-diamonds glint at him, and he really believes he can have it all if only he reaches out. So, that's what Scout does. He stands to his full height and slips his shirt over his head. his hands slip the belt from it's loops and he treads out of his trousers and underwear in one go. 

Nudity isn't something Scout has ever been shy about. He's been in and out of locker rooms since junior high, and even before that, growing up in a house of so many didn't offer the luxury of scruples. He stands there, glowing with moonlight, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and he is beautiful. Really, honestly gorgeous. Were it not for his own limitations, Sniper would have a better way of communicating this than a quick aversion of the eyes and a tense silence. A bolt of thunder breaks the sky. 

Yet, to Scout, no poetry in the world sings like the man's nervous, breathy exhale. He laughs. 

"Are you nervous?" He squeaks with disbelief, and places his arms akimbo. Sniper still can't look at him, and the pale vanilla of his face has turned to a hard haemoglobin red. "I seen you take on three guys with nothin' but a knife, an' you're nervous a' me." 

"More to lose." The man mumbles. He glances at Scout, very careful to look no lower than his neck. Scout doesn't repay him the same courtesy. "S-scout--..." The lightning rumbles like a low growl. 

The boy extends a hand. His fingers are long and slender. Everything about him is inviting, and there's no conviction strong enough in Sniper to argue against being pulled so standing. In the second he's up, though, scout uses the moment to his advantage and charges at him. 

He knocks them both over the dusty bank and into the clear, star-sprinkled waters with a great crash. 

"J-jesus!" Is the first thing Sniper manages to say, once he surfaces. In the water, a little ways out of his grasp, Scout is laying on his back, for once mute, looking at the other man as if he's been offered the moon on a string. "Y-you--" 

"It's a wonder y'don't get killed more often, man." Instead of trying to play it with tact, Scout just laughs at him. He lifts a hand and sends water into Sniper's eyes. "You sick of me yet?" 

The man stops his struggling in the water and lets the water sustain him for a second. his shock renders him still. "Of course not." He says, morosely. "You don't think t-that I--" 

"It don't matter what I think." Scout says, swimming a little closer. The boy is shivering, but up close Sniper can see just how violently. The water is cold enough in clothes. He tries his hardest not to imagine the pale skin pickled with cold, and does a poor job. "You'll get sick a' --fuck!" The boy's cry is drowned out by a strike of lightning that illuminates the shock of his thunder that cracks like a whip. 

Scout withdraws violently. He sinks a little in the black waters, clutching at something. Most likely his leg, and there is a clear look of distress in his eyes. "Jesus, I think somethin' jus' bit me!" In the water, the reflection of stares make it hard to see anything, but Sniper searches as he pulls Scout back towards the bank. In the distance, something akin to a snake might be poking his head up out of the depths. 

"What the fuck was it?!" The boy makes a bad show of bravado. the fear is in his eyes, and the way he's clamping over the bite as if it's a bullet wound. He climbs out of the water, biting back whimpers from the cut of the air against the water. His hands are clamped over the side of his thigh, and he lays back instinctively to let Sniper inspect the wound. rightly so, two puncture marks, small though they are, stand out against the pale of Scout's thigh, and a small spray of blood is already developing there. 

He tries to to seem untoward --or even toward, as he dips down and sucks until he tastes copper. Reeling back, he makes sure to spit it all out. Scout still looks terrified."I can't lose this leg," he says, panicked. "It's my livelihood, man--" 

"It's okay," Sniper says. he looks at the water, and lets out a breath. "It's okay. I think I was a garter snake. They ain't poisonous. " Leaning back on his hands, Sniper shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He can't look at Scout. He doesn't think he has the stamina. He looks up at the sky, heavy with cloud, turned ash-grey by the lightning on occasion. 

"Fucker still bit me." Scout mutters, and rubs down his arms in a futile attempt to keep warm. He leans heavy on Sniper, who is equally-sodden, and sighs. "Why you acting like he bit you on the dick?" 

Sniper still won't look at him. He lets out an enormous sigh, one heavier than anything Atlas could hope to hold. "This has been a d-disaster. I only wanted..." The man dips his head in utter resignation and Scout isn't sure there's anything he can say to salvage the man's mood any. After all, he's the one who has nearly died tonight. Unless one can die of shame. 

"Naw, it ain't been so bad." Scout says. But as he does the sky cracks again, and warm, storm-cloud rain starts to paint them both a different shade of distress. Scout would normally suggest leaving. Naked in the rain isn't how he wants to be found if hypothermia gets him. The rain only serves to make Sniper's mood worse and he hunches over, hiding his face in his hands. 

"Hey," Scout says, softly. "I think 'act a' god' is a pretty good excuse for a lousy date." 

Sniper looks at him. "I j-jus wanted to--..." He sighs again. "I don't know what to do." 

Scout's voice is shaking with cold, but sunny with a smile, somehow. "Wanna scream?" 

It's passed off fairly seriously, but Sniper dismisses it as a bad joke. He really doesn't think that will help him. but that doesn't stump Scout for a minute. the boy leans like sniper is and cocks his head. 

"It's kinda embarassin' to admit it, but--..." He sighs. "When I was on the track team, I had to get everybody else motivated... even on shitty days. So I used to practise smilin', when I was down, y'know?" Scout laughs a sad little laugh. "It ain't easy." 

Sniper nods. He thinks he understands. "I get it." 

So Scout shoves him. "Well, c'mon then." Sitting up straighter, Scout looks right at him. Wracked with shivers, he looks so much younger. The things is, despite the snakebite, and the rain and everything else that has gone wrong, there is a definite, genuine smile on his face. "C'mon. Show me what you can do." 

"I d-don't think--" 

"Save it." Scout says, sharply. "Smile. For me." 

It takes a great deal of effort to look up at the boy, but when Sniper does, he can feel his mouth begging to demonstrate how happy he is made by the company. it comes slowly, and just as he feels comfortable enough to, Sniper shakes his head. "T-this is--" 

"It's weird, I know." Somehow straight-faced, Scout looks him right in the eyes and says. "Try laughin' aloud." 

"What?" The words scout are saying don't align with the reality of it all. sniper pauses in confusion. 

"C'mon." Scout nudges him. "Give it a shot." When Sniper shakes his head, Scout shrugs as if he expected that outcome and has naturally accounted for it. "Fine. I'll show you." 

Climbing to standing, Scout stretches out his back and lets his hands dangle at his sides. He takes in an enormous gulp of air, and steals a glance at Sniper, who is still sitting, before letting out the loudest, falsest, and most forced laugh Sniper has ever heard. It's so loud that Scout's face goes red with effort. He keeps right on laughing, though, even when Sniper stands up, and tries to pull him towards the van. 

"Y'can stop l-laughing now..." 

He gets no response. Scout continues to laugh, head thrown back, voice sounding odd, like it doesn't belong to him. at first, he's confused, but then the challenge strikes him. timid, at first, Sniper stands by his side and lets out a weak, bland chuckle. 

"Atta boy." Scout says. The smile on his face is real. Taking in another gulp of air, he prompts Sniper, and seconds later, they're at it again, dissolving into real and genuine laughter. Scout slumps forward onto his knees and looks at Sniper, so honest and open that this kind of affection has to be a verb. They're both breathless. The first to move, Scout picks up his shirt from the wild grass, and then the rest of his clothes. Pausing in thought, he looks up at Sniper and says, pensively. "Thanks." 

"W-what?" 

The boy chews his lip. "I feel like I ain't laughed since I joined RED." A pause. "An' I want my job here to be full a' laughter." They both file into the warm of Sniper's personal space. It's small, but there's enough room for Scout to dress again. He shivers all the way to the edge of the bed, where he sits besides Sniper. somehow, they go from sitting to laying, and then from over-the-sheets to under them. It's innocuous, somehow. 

The cold dissolves slowly, until it's just breathing. As a mumbled goodnight, Sniper says, "We'll try this again." 

It's not clear who falls asleep first. Maybe it's Scout. The space between them is minimal, and yet the words are more intimate than most of the sex Sniper has had in his life. They kiss. They do, and it's the last thing he remembers before dreamlessness. Maybe Sniper falls alseep first. Maybe they both pass out, but in his memory, they lay there, smiling at eachother in the dark forever. 

Sniper is a man of his word. They try it again. And again. And again. 

-

(Scout has been working at RED for twelve weeks when he's interviewed by the Director, and he says you get used to it. 

The gunpowder still gets in your eyes, and the heat still makes you weary and the silence can mess with your head sometimes, but Scout says you find ways to cope. He talks alot about laughter. About how, in the mornings, he plays chess, and the evenings are for poker. About how important it is to give people time to talk. 

He introduces himself to Miss Pauling and says, "You wouldn't happen to know where I can get Girl Scout cookies around here?" 

Because, as it turns out, Scout is a man of his word, too. It just takes a little while to get there, sometimes. )


End file.
